


Before you go.

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:25:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> The two best friends were left behind, surrounded by silence. John had to resist the urge to shake Sherlock by the shoulders, to yell at him, to ask him to wake up and stop fucking around. But instead he just stood there, observing the empty shell that was once a vibrant man.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before you go.

**Author's Note:**

> I had wanted to write this for months now. It feels so good to finally get it all out of my system!

That can't be him. Sherlock was always pale, his eyes were always lost, his expression was always blank, yes. But this unmoving person before him was whiter, more unresponsive, more quiet. His grey eyes remained fixed on the bright white ceiling above them.

John could hear a sob by his side. He turned his head to see Molly covering her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared at the corpse before him and then up at him; her eyes welled up further as she saw the expression on John's face. Did he look that bad? He had been trying to keep calm for Molly's sake, but apparently he was fooling no-one. He looked at Sherlock once again, a broken, heavy sigh escaping his lips as he took a step closer to the man that had been his best friend for eighteen months, but who was there no more.

Molly sobbed again, and John closed his eyes, trying with all his might not to snap at her. She wasn't doing anything wrong, after all. _She is wrecked_ , he thought. _She fancied him a little too much._

 But if _she_ was falling to pieces, what was left for him? She hadn't lived with him for eighteen months; she hadn't shared the bond he and Sherlock had built.

Sherlock could be unnerving, cynical, a monster if he wanted to. But John knew better. He was the only person for whom Sherlock would lower his guards, the only one who could see who he really was. John was the only one who knew his human side; he could tell what emotion he was hiding beneath an impassive mask of blankness most of the times, and he knew just how much he cared, even if he stated otherwise. The connection they had went far beyond the limits either of them could have ever hoped to reach with anyone, even more so with each other. They trusted one another, which was a lot to say from a soldier and a rational man.

John had no idea how much he had been holding his breath, but suddenly he inhaled sharply. Molly waved her free hand before her face and muttered something that John assumed was an apology, before storming out the door.

The two best friends were left behind, surrounded by silence. John had to resist the urge to shake Sherlock by the shoulders, to yell at him, to ask him to wake up and stop fucking around. But instead he just stood there, observing the empty shell that was once a vibrant man.

John thought back to the events that led to Sherlock laying on a metal bed, covered with a white sheet from half his legs to his collarbone. He remembered Sherlock's words, his explanations, his pleas. He could picture Sherlock's fall perfectly fine. The following seconds, as he watched his best friend wave his arms and legs about before he hit the pavement with a muffled thud, were burnt into his memory, and he knew he wouldn't be able to let go of the image of Sherlock's body bouncing back on the sidewalk.

A broken, tearless sob resounded in the room, and he distantly registered the noise had been emmited by him.

Watching Sherlock lay still in a morgue was too terrible, but he needed to make sure. Somewhere deep inside he had been hoping that Sherlock would come back to life, excuse himself, let John punch him a few times before hugging the wounded heart out of him. He hoped his finger would twitch, he wished his pupil would respond to light stimuli, he begged for him to jerk at a sudden sound. But no reaction came from him as John let his eyes travel through his frozen face, which would never move again.

John stretched out his arm and touched Sherlock's cheek. His pronounced cheekbones were cold against his fingertips; his flesh made no flinch at the touch. John began to wonder what would happen if he never saw Sherlock again. What it would feel to live in an empty appartment. How lonely he would be when Sherlock never returned. How quiet his life would be now that Sherlock--

John blinked back the tears he had no idea were beginning to blurr his vision.

He tried to call Sherlock's name, but his voice broke. He winced at the croaked syllable that left his mouth, knowing he wouldn't be able to say a single word without losing all the strength he had somehow gathered and breaking down.

John shook his head, knowing too well just how bad he would feel Sherlock's loss, and how much being there made it all the more real.

He lowered his head and let his breath run through Sherlock's face like he used to do when the detective leaned too close for comfort. And finally, after eighteen months of struggling, he finally gave in to the urge and kissed Sherlock's stiff cheek, on the corner of his mouth.

"Bye," he gasped out before spinning around and striding out of the morgue before the tears he had been repressing fell from his eyes. A sob echoed on the corridors, and John was suddenly outside. His friend lay atop a metal table. And he was not coming back this time.


End file.
